Page 88 of Dishonored

She stared at the screen with utter hatred.

Caesar got it, then. He really fucking got it.

“Who?” Raffe asked again.

“You, Raffe. I belong to you.”

“Exactly. You do not get to tell me no. You do not get to refuse your husband, Aria. Not your body, or anything else I want. And if you want to keep me from adding more marks on that throat of yours, you’ll learn to listen and like it.”

This hadn’t been about his family, or the streets of their city. This hadn’t been about Caesar, or hurting him. It hadn’t been about a father she wanted killed, or a woman too greedy for her own good, and desiring more power.

This was about this woman.

This woman right here—manipulated, and abused. With a husband who used her, and one she probably couldn’t escape.

Caesar knew, then.

None of this had been what he thought it was.

She was not who he thought she was.

“And don’t you ever fucking forget it,” Raffe snapped.

The laptop chimed with the ending of the call. It took Aria a second, and then one hard, shaky breath before she reached over, grabbed the screen, and slammed it shut. She bent slightly over the laptop and desk as her shoulders hunched.

Caesar didn’t move.

Couldn’t move.

When she looked up at Caesar again, tears had streaked glistening lines down her reddened cheeks.

Humiliation.

Shame.

Sadness.

It all stared back at him, then.

God.

He knew that well, too.

“Have you come to kill me, then?” Aria asked in a whisper. “Because right now, I might even ask you to do it.”

No … not anymore.

TWELVE

ARIA REFUSED TO look up again—would not allow someone else to see her shame and degradation one more time. Wasn’t it bad enough that she was standing there naked for Caesar to see after everything? She had done so well to hide this part of her marriage; she kept Raffe’s treatment of her hidden so no one would ever know.

Then, no one would ever think she was weak.

Or incapable.

Broken.

It was the one thing she could control in her marriage—her reputation.